


no sleep in heaven or bethlehem

by sxldato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Big Brother Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilty Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Hallucinates, Sam's Hell Trials, Sam-Centric, Season/Series 08, Vomiting, sam is just a mess that's p much it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4014310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightmares are rough, especially when you can't wake up from them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no sleep in heaven or bethlehem

**Author's Note:**

> am i dead inside? yes  
> i love seeing sam hurt because i love seeing him being taken care of and being loved.... idk i just really love sam and i want him to be okay.... fuck  
> i beta read this during chem class you're all welcome  
> title is from "Mama Who Bore Me" from _Spring Awakening_

There was nothing good about any of this, but the worst part was that there was nobody else to blame. Lucifer had left his head months ago; this slow, agonizing spiral downward was all him. There was no divine or demonic intervention needed for him to wreck his mind and body, which was depressing to say the least. He’d thought he could take care of himself, that maybe after all this was over, he could even make it on his own. But he was weak and worn out, and all he was doing—keeping up a decent front and continuing with the Trials—was exacerbating the pain. It was clear that no, he could not take care of himself. Impulsive, suicidal tendencies for “the greater good” got in the way of that.

There were moments when he wasn’t even sure what was up and what was down, let alone what was right or wrong. He shouldn’t be trusted with his own morality; everything he thought he knew was going up in smoke, and there was no way to put the fire out.

Reminding himself that he wasn’t actually sick, that these were just the aftershocks of the Trials, wasn’t very helpful at all. At least if he was sick, there would be a clear end to this misery. The way things were looking, he wasn’t sure if this would stop with the third trial. A thought would sometimes worm into his head—a small one, but it was there—that maybe this was how he was supposed to be. This was just him, fraying around the edges, tearing at the seams, and there was nothing to be done about it. He heard it being whispered to him in the creaking of the floorboards and the rattling of the old pipes: give up the ghost.  

He hated the bunker.

Sure, it was a home, and he hadn’t had one since his mom went up in flames on the ceiling of his nursery, but it didn’t feel right to him. The bunker carried stories, people’s stories, memories scattered about in dusty corners and cracks in the walls. He kept thinking that this was how horror movies started, how lives ended. You didn’t mess with something that’s filled to the brim with tragedy; that was basically the first rule in the book.

That might have been why he had nobody but Dean. Everyone else knew better than to fuck around with a boy who faced the threat of death on the daily.

Not that he blamed them. He’d steer clear of himself too, if he could-- especially now.

He was a mess, and if it was possible, things got worse at night. He’d read once that people in hospitals were more prone to confusion and fear when the moon came out— it was something about being sick and alone in the dark. He’d come to dread sleeping because the grotesque images didn’t stop when they closed his eyes; they came to life. They moved. He could feel the blood hitting his skin. He could smell it. And he could never wake up once it started, so he was stuck, drowning in the taste of hot copper. He’d scream himself hoarse, tangle his thrashing limbs in the blankets, and he’d open his eyes feeling sick and cold.

As vivid as his dreams were while he was having them, they quickly faded once he was thrown back into consciousness. Whether that was for the better or not, he couldn’t be sure. Either way, waking up from one was the most difficult and the most painful.

 

Tonight was no different. He hovered between reality and his subconscious, feeling beads of sweat drip down his spine as he lay there paralyzed in his mess of blankets. Sometimes he was able to shake it off, splash some water on his face and get back to sleep. But sometimes the fear was too real, too alive, and it was hard to do anything other than scream and kick until it finally left him alone.

His eyes were open but he wasn’t awake, and his body ached and burned. He couldn’t sit up because there was an anvil on his chest, his hands and feet were nailed to the mattress like some sick reenactment of Christ’s crucifixion, and maybe he laughed a little on the inside because the irony was too strong to ignore.

It was hard to breathe. There was an anvil on his chest. He could barely scream loud enough to gain some satisfaction.

And then someone was beside him, touching him, and the anvil and the nails were gone and he was kicking and punching as hard as he could, wild and without aim. The scent of blood was still in his nose, still dripped down the back of his throat, sticky and hot. There was still the excruciating, white-hot pain that throbbed behind his eyes, swirled around his head and down his spine until he couldn’t move anymore because it hurt too much.

“Sammy? Sammy, you gotta wake up!”

He knew that voice. It was the one next to him in the back of the car as he played with his little toy soldiers, the one that was right behind him when he first learned how to shoot a gun, the one that held him as he bled, the one that’s made deals after deals just to keep him around and he could never understand why he did that because really, how important could he be?

But he also knew another voice, and he’d swear on his life that he heard that one, too. It was background noise compared to the crackle of fire and his own screams, and at the same time it was right next to his ears. It whispered things of sin, like that damn snake in the garden. It blew out his eardrums, made him dig his thumb into the scar on his palm even though it had healed, because a little blood on top of the rest of this pain was nothing.

He didn’t remember moving, didn’t think he could feel his legs well enough to get up, but he was in the corner of his bedroom with his knees pulled up to his chest. He shook the way he used to when the car heater went out in the winter, but right now he wasn’t cold. In fact, he was sure there were flames licking his skin.

“I won’t touch you again, okay?” There was that voice again, and he wished he could stay lucid enough for one second to know who it was. “But I’m not leaving you like this, you can count on that.”

Sweat drenched his body and his pulse jumped out of his neck, so strong it almost hurt. The world was spinning, but he couldn’t close his eyes without the threat of a relapse. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs to breathe comfortably, and pretty soon he was struggling to breathe at all. It was hard to get him winded, but he felt it now, that deep ache in his chest that wouldn’t let go.

“Try and make fists with your hands, or wiggle your toes or something, anything, just—“ That was desperation, audible even to him— “Just try and come back to me, Sammy.”

Jesus Christ, why was he needed so badly? He’d let himself go if there wasn’t this crushing pressure on his shoulders to keep going. There were other people who could do his job, other people to take his place; he was expendable, replaceable, and all he wanted was to be replaced. All he wanted was for this to stop so he could sleep without worrying about waking up paralyzed and screaming. He deserved that, didn’t he?

He’d done so much shit in the past, he couldn’t be sure he was deserving of anything. Maybe he had this coming to him. This was what he deserved.   

He could barely concentrate on feeling his fingers, but he managed to curl them into his palms, clenching his fists as tight as he could before letting go and doing it all over again. Each time he did it, the paralysis in his stomach and chest loosened until the last of it fizzled out. He blinked a few times, willing the exhaustion to leave the spots right behind his eyes so he could focus. His heart was still fluttering with lingering panic, creating queasiness in his gut.

The tunnel vision expanded and his blurred surroundings faded, and someone was holding him up by the shoulders. He appreciated that, he thought, because he’d have fallen face first if that support weren’t there. He’d have fallen a lot of times without support.

“Sam?”

Dean. It was Dean, and he hated himself for mistaking him for the fucking devil.

His name was being repeated, and he looked at his brother with bleary eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“You with me?”

He groaned, as if that was an adequate response, and slumped forward to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder.

“Alright, c’mon, you’re okay.” Dean held him, running one of his hands up down the length of Sam’s spine, smoothing down his hair. “It’s okay.”

Sam wanted to ask if they could stay like this, just for a few minutes, because he was scared and he felt sick and he needed this, but he couldn’t open up like that. He couldn’t make himself vulnerable like that. He’d been engineered not to.

As soon as he was able to get words out, he asked, “Were you sleeping?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

That meant he’d been sleeping. Dean had been getting some much-needed rest and had been trying to take care of himself, and Sam had woken him with his own problems. He couldn’t control whether or not he cried out in his nightmares, or how loud he screamed; that still didn’t prevent the guilt that was now sweeping over him in time with the sweat streaking his body.

“Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

He thought for a moment that he was going to be scolded, and a part of him felt relief. Disappointment from family was something he’d grown to deal with, something tangible that he could handle. What he couldn’t handle was this fear; it extended farther than he could see, over the hills and valleys in his mind that had once held nothing. It stretched him out like gum or rubber-- thin enough that he was transparent, thin enough that he was an inch away from breaking, and he needed Dean to smash him back together.

He needed to be stomped into the ground.

“You listening, Sammy? I said it’s not your fault.”

When is it not his fault? Has there ever been a time where he couldn’t be blamed?

He wanted to say this, wanted Dean to fucking think before he spoke, but nausea was making his throat close up. He’d barely pulled himself away, hadn’t even gotten the words “I’m gonna be sick” out of his mouth, before Dean was grabbing the waste bin next to them and holding it under Sam’s chin.

It was remarkable, really, Sam thought somewhere in the back of his head, somewhere that wasn’t preoccupied with choking and retching.  It was remarkable how quickly Dean could move when he knew Sam was in trouble, and how well he could read Sam without him even saying anything.

In the dark, his puke looked black, like tar heroin or demon blood. He thought of Ruby and hated himself again. He was good at doing that, hating himself.

“Sam—hey, look at me, focus on me.”

Dean’s voice was low and it steadied him enough that he was able to catch his breath.

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, so I don’t know what to do. And I hate to do this do you, man, because this has gotta be tough, but I need you to tell me what’s going on as best you can.”

What made Dean think that Sam knew what to do was beyond him. This wasn’t new, but he’d never mastered it, never figured out how to cope. “’S called sleep paralysis,” he forced out, and talking did not help the unsteadiness in his stomach. “Your… your brain wakes up before your body does and you’re trapped in your nightmare. But it’s over now—at least for the time being…” He swallowed and it stung his throat; he really wanted to ask for some water, but at the same time he didn’t feel he was allowed to ask for anything.

“If that’s over, then what’s this?”

“Aftershocks.” The walls were old and hollow, but right now it was a good place to rest his head. “Panic, anxiety… gotta ride it out…”

“Alright, so how do we do that?”

Sam wanted to reply with the question of how Dean could possibly be so gung-ho when the sun was still way below the horizon, but his wit was not so quick when he was this worn down.

“I sit here,” he said, emphasizing the _I_ because Dean was in no way obligated to stay. “I keep breathing, try not to fall asleep again, try not to throw up again. There’s no method here, Dean, just madness. And you don’t need to be here to see it.”

“Course I do,” Dean said, sounding like Sam had just suggested they dive back into the cage. “Don’t fuck around like that. I’m staying put until you’re better.”

“If that’s your deal, then we’re never gonna leave this room.”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

 

Dean had wrapped him in an old, moth-eaten blanket and had sat him down at the table by the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” His throat was raw and it hurt to talk, but he did it anyways.

“I’m taking care of you.”

That sounded like it was supposed to be a definitive answer, so Sam didn’t press him further. Instead he watched silently as Dean maneuvered his way around the kitchen, opening cabinets and going through drawers. Soon, there was a teakettle on the stove and Dean was fiddling with the knobs.

“How long does it take to heat water?”

“Depends how much you put in the kettle.”

He could hear Dean swearing to himself and hid a smile behind his hand. “Do you want help?”

“No,” Dean snapped, “no, you stay there. I can do this, I remember how, I—I watched Mom do it a few times.”

Whether it had been his intention, it shut Sam up.

It didn’t take long. He must have dozed off in his chair for a bit, because the next thing he was aware of was Dean setting a steaming mug in front of him.

“I couldn’t find the sugar, but—“

“That’s okay.”

The cup warmed his hands and he took slow sips so he wouldn’t burn his tongue.

“Is it—“

“It’s good.”

The tension in Dean’s shoulders eased a little. “You’ll tell me if it happens again.”

“The sleep paralysis? There’s not much you can do about it, Dean—“

“You don’t know that. Promise you’ll tell me.”

He wasn’t wired to promise things. He was wired to lie and to cover up. But he agreed because he knew Dean wouldn’t rest until he did.

And Hell knew they both needed some sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> _Some pray that one day, Christ will come a-calling_   
>  _They light a candle and hope that it glows_   
>  _And some just lie there crying for Him to come and find them_   
>  _But when He comes they don't know how to go_


End file.
